


and you understand this never-ending dance (now it all makes sense)

by starraya



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 12:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11967330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starraya/pseuds/starraya
Summary: All this back and forth, between England and Ukraine and France and Sudan. Bernie knows her travels have only led her one place. To this moment.





	and you understand this never-ending dance (now it all makes sense)

Bernie wakes up with Serena’s arm curled around her waist, Serena’s fingers splayed against her stomach and Serena’s breath warm on the back of her neck. Bernie turns around and studies Serena.

“Darling, I can feel you staring.” Serena mumbles. A knowing smile quirks her lips. She doesn’t need to open her eyes to see Bernie’s sheepish look.

“Morning.”

Serena hums in response, eyes still closed. “Go back to sleep. It’s not morning yet.”

Bernie wants to wrap Serena’s voice around her it is so soft.

“I’m enjoying the view,” Bernie says and is rewarded by a throaty chuckle.

“It’s still dark.”

“I can still see you though. I can always see you.”

“Slightly creepy.”

“I was going for romantic.”

“We’ve got the French landscape for that, dear.”

“So, you don’t want romantic?”

“I want you.” Serena opens her eyes. “But in a couple hours mind. I need to see to the other woman in my life first.” Bernie’s brow furrows and Serena rolls her eyes. “Sleep,” she explains. “Sleep, Ms Wolfe.”

And Bernie does.

-

Bernie wakes up alone in Sudan, light splintering the dark of her room. Bernie eases herself up in bed, rubs her eyes and slides a hand under her pillows. The memory of France will fade from her mind like morning mist under a rising sun. As it always does. The day will wear on and Bernie’s mind will focus on her work. But she allows herself this – the photo in her hand – a reminder that the dream isn’t just a memory, but Bernie’s present. Her future.

Bernie’s fingers trace the profile of the woman in the photo. Her cheeks are rosy to match the tan of her shoulders. Her silver hair is slightly ruffled. It glints in the afternoon son. Her fingers cup a wine glass and you can’t see the red that stains her lips, but Bernie remembers the taste of it on her tongue. Serena’s head is turned away from Bernie. She is looking at the view from their balcony. The photo is the second before Serena realised that Bernie was sneakily snapping a picture of Serena on her phone.

The next photo on Bernie’s camera roll captures the moment Serena twisted around, eyes wide, lips parted in question. Serena’s sudden movement blurred the shoot and the photo isn’t as clear as the first one, but it was difficult for Bernie to pick between the two when she packed her bags for Africa. Bernie brought something else with her. She sewed a flap into the corner of her pillowcase and keeps the item, most of the time, tucked inside it. Occasionally, she holds it in the palm of her hand. Rehearses words inside her head.

Bernie dreams frequently of Serena. She dreams of Serena holding her, but does Serena know how much Bernie wants to hold her too?

-

Months later, Bernie lands on English soil.

When Serena spots Bernie across the ward, they both freeze – the distance that was once miles between them is footsteps. Time slows and stretches. It is Serena that walks towards Bernie, slowly, as if she’s unsure she’s real. They hover opposite one another in silence. Serena rubs her fingers against the skin of her neck. Bernie tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, eyes flitting down and up.

“Hello stranger.”

“Hello,” Serena replies, twisting the pendant of her necklace. “Fancy a cup of coffee?”

“Love one.” Bernie smiles.

“Right,” Serena turns around. “I’ll just . . .” She’s only two paces away when she twists back to Bernie, eyes sparkling. “Or maybe something stronger?”

“Coffee’s fine, thanks.” Bernie’s voice is soft and quiet, but Serena’s smile falters slightly when Bernie clears her throat. “I . . . um . . . just need to do something first. I’ll meet you in the office.”

“Sure.”

And even though it’s true, the words ‘the office’ instead of ‘our office’, the mere change of one syllable, cuts Serena. It’s an accidental injury, of course. Bernie meant nothing by the phrase. It’s Serena’s that dwells on all the things her and Bernie have lost, jointly and individually, together and apart, over the past year. Somewhere amongst it all, somewhere between England Ukraine and France and Sudan, have they accidently lost each other?

-

Bernie is perched on the stairs of the roof a full minute, before she realises it was a bad idea to come up here. The memory of her and Serena’s parting is more bitter than sweet. Amid the feel of Serena’s hand in hers, the softness of the blanket tickling their skin, amid the scent of Shiraz and rain in the air, waiting in the clouds above, there is fear. The race of her heart. There is how close Bernie though thought she came to losing Serena. She never wants to feel that kind of terror again.

As Bernie rises to her feet, she hears footsteps. Dominic Copeland grins at her.

“Shouldn’t you be with Serena in a storage cupboard somewhere?”

“Lovely to see you, too.”

“I’ve been seconded to AAU for the day and you can feel the sexual frustration radiating off Ms Campbell in waves.”

“That’s my partner you’re talking about Doctor Copeland.”

“Exactly,” Dom quips, without missing a beat. “You’re the best suited to handle the situation. I just don’t understand why it’s not being handled.”

“Just how many F1s heads has she bitten off?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an article in the newspaper tomorrow about NHS staff shortages.” Dom chuckles and sits down on the stairs. Bernie does the same.

“But, seriously, Bernie,” Dom’s voice turns serious. “Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that. I know I was never there and I should have –”

“Opps,” Dom waves a hand dramatically. “Thinking error.” “Sorry?” “‘Should statements are unrealistic and distort our perception of our self. They are a negative thinking pattern that we need to alter.’”

“Therapy?” Bernie smiles at the thought of her friend receiving the help he needs after Isaac.

“Yep.”

“I am sorry though. We haven’t talked in a while.”

“You had a lot on your plate too. I think we’d both had our fair share of shitty things happen to us. I just hope we’ve reached the quota.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Steady on, Ms Wolfe. It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Yes, but as Serena always says, it’s always 5’o clock somewhere.”

Dom guffaws. Bernie honks.

“But really,” Dom asks, as their laughter floats into the air. “Why aren’t you with the missus?”

Bernie breathes in deep. “Because,” her voice trembles with hope. “That’s the plan.”

-

Serena leans back in her office chair and sighs. The two cups of coffee on her desk are going cool, are now lukewarm at best. Untouched, they will grow cold.

Serena reaches down in her handbag, hand slipping past a nearly full packet of sertraline. She kept forgetting to take the tablets in the morning, so she put them in her bag. Promised herself she’d take them at work, first thing. But things got in the way: new patients needed her attention, F1s needed her for a second opinion, Hanssen called her into his office. Serena draws out the notebook from her handbag. Her fifth? Sixth? She doesn’t know, just carries it with here in case. She opens the notebook onto to a blank page, thick and unlined. She presses her pen into the surface, hard enough to imprint the next few pages.

_JUST ASK HER._

The office door creaks and Serena slams the notebook shut.

“Bernie.” Serena stands up. “We need to talk.”

Serena’s tone does nothing to steady Bernie’s stomach, already aflutter with nerves. “Okay.” Bernie softly closes the office door behind her, inches forward.

“A month,” Serena says. “A month of radio silence. Not as bad as the first time, albeit, but the novelty’s definitely worn off.”

“I told you . . . the internet connection was cactus, most of the time. And the phone signal wasn’t much –”

“Please.” Serena’s voice cracks. “Don’t lie to me. I know you spoke to Jason, several times. I know you called Cameron. And Charlotte. Jason didn’t mean to let that bit slip, I could tell, but he doesn’t like lies.”

“Serena . . . I . . .”

“All I want is honesty. In France, I thought we were . . . but all this back and forth. Ukraine, France, Sudan. It feels like we’ve spent more time apart than together. Maybe we have. And I wouldn’t blame you for finding it hard.” Serena turns her head to one side, unable to face Bernie. “God knows, at points, I have.”

“I’m sorry for not calling, but I can explain. I didn’t realise how long it had been since –”

Serena scoffs. “You seem to forget I was married to a man who you used those exact same words.”

The realisation finally dawns for Bernie. What this is all about.

“I’m not Edward. I would never do that to you. God, do you really think I would –”

“Act on it? No. But I’ve . . . I’ve watched someone before lose interest.”

Bernie steps forward to Serena. Grasps her hands. “No, Serena.”

“And he didn’t have to put up with what you have. Didn’t have this messed-up, depressed . . .” The words lodge in Serena’s throat. Her eyes drop down to Bernie’s hands, holding hers. A tear splashes against Bernie’s skin. “I know what you’re going to say. But I’m no longer the woman you fell in love with Bernie. I don’t think I’ll ever be that woman again."

“I know.” Bernie brings one of her hands up and brushes her fingers against Serena’s cheek. She leans her forehead against Serena’s so that her breath is warm on Serena’s lips. “I know. But . . .” Bernie draws back slightly. “Falling in love, Campbell.” Despite her tears, Serena smiles at Bernie’s use of her last name. “You say it like it’s a one-time thing. I loved the woman you were and I love the woman you are now.”

Bernie steps back a little, reaches inside her coat pocket for something. “I’ve got something for you.” She presses a hand into Serena’s palm. Serena opens her fingers slowly. Looks at what’s in her hand, looks at Bernie. She laughs at the memory of the messily wrapped bottle of wine Bernie had brought her back from Kiev.

“Couldn’t even afford a whole bottle this time?”

“It’s the cork from the wine we shared on the rooftop, before you . . . I kept it with me, whilst you were in France.” Bernie explains, smiling. “A little bit of hope.” _A little bit of you_ , Bernie thinks and takes a deep, steadying breath. Because she no longer just wants parts of Serena to hold on to. She wants all of her.

“I took it with me to Sudan as well,” Bernie carries on, voice trembling. “And it was in Sudan, I had this _mad_ idea. And I called Jason and Cam and Lottie – to ask them how they felt about it – and they all told me it wasn’t so mad.”

Serena’s throat turns dry. She can feel Bernie’s shaking when she closes her hands once again over Serena’s.

“Oh my god,” Serena breathes, voice barely a whisper.

Bernie forces her voice to steady. “I will buy you a ring,” Bernie promises. “But for now . . . Serena Wendy Campbell, will you marry me?”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song July by BOY. Someone once made the most perfect Berena fanvideo to it (that I can no longer seem to find). Give the song a listen. It's beautiful. 
> 
> I've been feeling quite insecure about my writing, recently. And this one-shot was an attempt to try and improve my style, so I wasn't just vomiting fluff on the page, but actually thinking about the words I was using. I hope you like it.
> 
> Also, I've been writing Berena fanfic for over a year now. OMG.


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